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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22834393">I Can't Bring you Flowers</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie/pseuds/beltainefaerie'>beltainefaerie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Lost and Found [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Sex, Attempted Murder, Blood and Gore, Cemetery visit, Falling In Love, Greg in peril, Grief, M/M, Massage, Murder, Needles, Post-Reichenbach, Serial Killer, if the gore tags freak you out skip chapter two after the asterisk and go on to chapter 3, macabre art with corpses, murder shrine, showering together</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 07:49:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,435</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22834393</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie/pseuds/beltainefaerie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Unusual anniversaries and a Valentine's Day derailed by a serial killer are just par for the course for John Watson and Greg Lestrade. Love, though? That always feels new.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Greg Lestrade/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Lost and Found [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1211187</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thanks to meansgirl for betaing!</p><p>Previous fics in this series were noted as "not quite Johnstrade (yet). Although it is tagged John/Greg, both are still wrapped up in Sherlock Holmes and the Reichenbach fallout." but this one is definitely Johnstrade.</p><p>I didn't tag major character death, since fans know Sherlock isn't dead and it has been a year since the funeral at the beginning of this fic. The series as a whole deals significantly with two people processing their friend's death. If that will bother you, don't read it.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John approached the cemetery with a mixture of sadness and, to be honest, some measure of guilt. He missed Sherlock; of course he did. His heart still ached with the loss. </p><p>In the beginning, days had crept by in agony, the pain of it all still fresh and raw, gnawing at him. And then for weeks, even months everything felt wrapped in cotton wool. He hadn’t been quite numb, but everything he felt was distant, just ghostly echoes of a life half lived. He had come here every day at first. Then weekly, then… </p><p>Well, it was good to go now.</p><p>It didn’t feel real that it could have been an entire year since the funeral. Somehow, It felt safer to acknowledge this date than the roof at Barts. </p><p>He had been intending to stop by today, but hadn’t even bought these flowers for Sherlock. Not really-- even if he had decided that was who they were meant for. </p><p>From the moment he’d left the shop it had seemed wrong to have bought Greg flowers, today of all days. He hadn’t ever bought him flowers before. It wasn’t a real anniversary. It couldn’t be. Grief sex wasn’t really a proper start. </p><p>Whatever they were then, it had become something else. Precious. Deserving of celebration.  But that couldn’t be today. He stopped and sighed.   <i>Maybe the day I moved in?</i>  Not that he wanted to wait another seven months. </p><p>Sherlock’s headstone was in view now, sunlight reflecting off the polished black stone. Even from this distance away he could see a spot of crimson already against the base. He shouldn’t have been surprised. There had been well over a hundred people at the funeral, after all, but it still stung, magnified the weight in his chest that he hadn’t been a good enough friend, even now.</p><p>His only friend, Sherlock had said. And yet here he wasn’t even the first to remember...</p><p>John took a deep breath and swallowed hard around the lump in his throat, trying to remind himself why he’d come here today. It was something. Had to be enough.</p><p>He ran his hand over the headstone then bent and laid his flowers beside the other bouquet. Up close, they were really remarkably similar. Same florist’s logo on the cellophane, even. </p><p>There was a small white card in it, the only mark a familiar G in black ink.</p><p>Slowly, John smiled. The knot in his chest eased. Greg had been to the same florist and stopped here this morning on his way to work. </p><p>John took another deep breath, letting it out with a self deprecating chuckle. He couldn’t really be blamed for continuing to live, could he? </p><p>He settled his hand on the stone, and began to speak, pouring out everything to Sherlock. If he’d been there he would have seen it all at a glance, though if Sherlock had been here, who could say if he and Greg would have found each other at all. </p><p>John knew it was ridiculous to talk to a stone, but grief was a funny thing and it somehow helped. He sighed. </p><p>“Can’t believe it’s been a year, Sherlock. They’ve reinstated Greg, you know.” He looked out across the sea of headstones. The few other mourners were far off. If it helped, why shouldn’t he talk? “Actually, you missed a good case this week. He was stumped for awhile, but noticed these scuff marks by the bookcase. Said he just thought about what you’d look for. Turned out there was a hidden passage. Ruined the main suspect’s alibi right quick. You’d have solved it faster, but he learned a lot from you.”  </p><p>John was quiet a moment, running his fingers over the edge of the polished black stone. It was cold and smooth beneath his hand. “I learned things from you too, you know. ‘Course I think the lesson I needed most took me too long to see. It doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks. You were pretty clear on that one. There’s a place for pleasantries if they’re needed, but not for the judgemental bullshit people fight over, that people kick their kids out for. You need to risk your heart now and again, to take your chances while you’re here. I think I was so concerned about what I was <i>supposed</i> to be doing. Looking for a wife and in the meantime getting a leg over now and again. Thing is, I don’t need a wife, a dog, and 2.5 kids in the suburbs, right? And certainly not off in some midsomer village where I’d be bored inside of a month. I always needed someone who could understand, who could see me. Like you always did, even when I couldn’t see things properly myself. You needed me and knew--” John’s breath hitched a moment and his voice dropped to a whisper. “-- the danger quiets something in me. Helps me focus. I’m not going find that in some boring life that my mum and everyone expected me to have.” </p><p>John took a deep breath and blew it out before continuing, “Anyway, Greg understands that, too. And I needed someone who understood about you. Greg, well, Greg knows everything. More than I ever said to you actually. I guess I always thought you knew. If you’d have wanted me like that you’d’ve said something, right? But then I wondered. Sometimes where emotion came in I think you had a blind spot. I should have said, and then I couldn’t. Christ, I’m bad at this even when I doubt you can hear me anyway. What I mean is, I loved you. I haven’t really known what to do with that and I haven’t been here in awhile. Not since I moved in with Greg. I know you had somehow paid the rent so I could stay in Baker Street, but the flat was too quiet without you and with spending most nights at Greg’s anyway, it just seemed like time. I hope you understand. Mrs. Hudson can’t bring herself to rent it out. We check in with her most Sundays. She keeps saying she’s going to have Mrs. Turner’s married ones round to meet us, bless her.”</p><p>John squeezed his eyes shut. Willing tears not to come, though they always did when he was out here. He cleared his throat and found his voice again. </p><p>“Anyway, I miss you. I think I always will, but Greg helps me remember I’m not the one who died. I love you, Sherlock, but I’ll never know whether we could have…” John trailed off then took another steadying breath. “I love Greg. We’re happy together. In a weird way, it’s because of you. So thanks for that. I’ve gotta get to the surgery now. I hope wherever you are, you’ve found peace. I think maybe I finally have.”</p><p>Of course the stone couldn’t answer, but somehow telling Sherlock about Greg seemed important. He hadn’t mentioned it before. He wasn’t really certain why. Maybe he just hadn’t been ready to say everything. </p><p>Usually these visits left him feeling somehow both heavy and hollowed out for hours, Or worse. Alone no matter where he went after or how good the company. </p><p>This felt different, better, his heart lighter. Things were never going to be the same as before, but at least he’d found a bit of hope, a sliver of happiness again in this world.</p><p>And maybe, just maybe, Greg felt the same.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Remember that the gore is in this chapter. The graphic descriptions are after John and Greg's text conversation. There is a single asterisk before Greg goes to the scene, so if you want to miss the gory parts skip to chapter 3 then.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Valentine’s day was clear and bright, not that he was getting to see much of it. Greg wished he could take a walk with John, maybe grab a bite, but that just wasn’t in the cards. </p><p>The papers had dubbed this one ‘The Lonely Heart Killer’, as he was luring victims through lonely hearts ads, then removing theirs. The chief was up Greg’s arse about solving it. Of course he was doing his best, even without the added pressure. Murders were always high priority, but doubly so when it was a serial killer at work, a race to solve it before the next victim. </p><p>He didn’t have Sherlock anymore to waltz in, piece it all together and tell them they were all idiots. He smiled wryly. He wasn’t an idiot, he knew that, but he wasn’t nearly as fast and clever as Sherlock had been. Who was? At least he had John, though. They had talked through things night after night. Even in Greg’s sleep, his mind couldn’t rest, racing through possibilities, angles he might have missed but there didn’t seem to be much of a pattern. </p><p>Greg flipped through the files then sat back, scrubbing a hand over his face. He couldn’t even formulate a prediction of when the killer would strike next. No clues in the composition of the other ads or how they were placed. Nothing in the weather or moon cycles or any calendar pattern either. Greg sighed, trying to hear what Sherlock would have said about it. There were neither ghostly whispers nor that voice in his head that sounded like Sherlock to nudge him in the right direction, just the uneasy silence of unanswered questions.</p><p>
  <b>Not sure when I’ll be out of here today, love. Haven’t cracked this yet.</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Busy too. Surgery’s full.</b>
</p><p>
  <b>Still that bug going round? </b>
</p><p>
  <b>A bit. Mostly sexual health screenings and codgers looking for little blue pills. Ah, romance.</b>
</p><p>Greg chuckled at that and typed back. </p><p>
  <b>Lol good luck with all that.</b>
</p><p>
  <b>You too. I hope you catch a break in the case.<br/> </b></p>
<p><b>
Me too!</b>
</p><p>*</p><p>It was another hour before he did. </p><p>An anonymous tip led them to an abandoned house in Peckham. It seemed to have fallen through the cracks somehow. It wasn’t listed for sale and the last known owner had passed away some years ago. The yard looked like it hadn’t been tended to for years. There was no car in the drive and not a sign of life, as far as they could tell from the outside. Lestrade and the other officers were careful as they entered. You never knew. </p><p>They stepped lightly onto the porch. The wood creaked, but not terribly. Lestrade found the door was ajar and opened it, motioning to Hopkins to follow quietly, then signaled the other team to head around back. </p><p>He felt a chill creeping up his spine as they entered. There was no doubt they were in the right place. The windows were blacked out. Flickering light came from a room to their left. Crumpled newspapers littered the hardwood floors and the air held the sharp scent of surgical spirit, which still couldn’t mask the lingering tinge of blood and decay. </p><p>There was a low couch in the center of the room facing a macabre shrine along one long wall. Candles burned on low tables in front of it, illuminating walls papered in newspaper clippings, lonely hearts ads, profile pictures printed off dating sites, reports on the crime scenes. Lestrade’s eyes darted from one image to the next, trying to take it in, look for clues. Many of the pictures and clippings were tinged with bloody fingerprints. Could make conviction easy, if they were the killer’s and not the victim’s.</p><p>Polaroids of the victims, in various states of undress, were pinned up as well, each labelled with a date and time. Just as they’d found in tracking the case, there didn’t seem to be any connecting feature between the victims. Men and women, with various builds and colorings. </p><p>The first panel caught his eye. Two victims, together. Not ones he’d seen before and these had visible stab wounds. He scanned the writing at the bottom. They predated any victims they’d connected to him. They lay beside one another, eyes wide and unseeing. Not posed artfully, just laying beside one another in bed, though it still had his telltale heart removal, it lacked the precise surgical quality of the later victims. Perhaps his first. Crime of passion turned ritual?</p><p>The other victims included multiple photos, some of the victims still living. One man with sandy blond hair looked shyly at the camera. It appeared to have been taken in a restaurant, possibly on the initial date. In the next few, the man lay strapped to a steel operating table, both before and after his chest was spread open. His final pose had been kneeling, his hands held together as if in prayer, a heart aflame on a plate in front of him.</p><p>The latest victim had been posed on a throne-like chair. Her head had been tilted down, eyes closed. Makeup had been expertly applied. Her hands were cupped, cradling a heart. There must have been fifty pictures of that victim alone. Close ups of her eyes, closed as if in sleep or meditation. Fingertips, the loops, whorls and arches standing out, stained with blood.  Full lips stained crimson. That dripping heart.  </p><p>Greg shuddered and looked away. </p><p>“Lestrade!” Hopkins hissed and her voice, even hushed, sounded loud in the eerie stillness of the room. She pointed a shaking hand at the shrine on a side wall. A low table with an unlit candle stood in front of it. It contained only a newsprint picture of Lestrade from a press conference with a deep red-brown heart fingerpainted around it.  </p><p>“Jesus,” he breathed. He had half a mind to back out now and call SCO19 to deal with this, but his team was already here and he couldn’t risk this guy getting another victim. Greg listened intently for any movement in the house, trying to hear anything above the cacophony of his own heartbeat.</p><p>There was a scraping sound towards the back of the house. Something heavy dragging over the wood floors.</p><p>“You hear that?” he whispered.</p><p>Hopkins nodded, eyes wide.</p><p>Ludicrous headlines flashed through Greg’s head. <b>Cop Loses Heart to Serial Killer -- Heartless DI Couldn’t Solve Case in Time.</b> <i>Jesus falling in love with a blogger hadn’t done him any favors.</i> The ear splitting screech of metal on metal made him jump and he felt like he was caught in some shitty horror movie. </p><p>There was a sudden flurry of movement as a pocket door flew open and a large man barreled down on Greg. There was a glint in the light and Greg felt a flash of pain at his neck. He batted the man’s hand and the syringe away. </p><p>Hopkins jumped on the man’s back, catching him in a stranglehold as he and Greg still wrested. </p><p>Greg shouted, hoping the rest of the team would get to them quickly. His vision blurred as he managed to get his cuffs around one of the man’s wrists. Hopkins helped wrestle him into the other. The rest of the team ran in from the back, helping to subdue the attacker. </p><p>“He got Greg with a needle. Careful, It’s still on the floor somewhere.” Hopkins shouted.</p><p>Greg fumbled for his mobile, hitting speaker and 999. He managed the address before everything blurred, greying out before he slumped to the floor unconscious.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“John?”</p><p>“Yeah, who’s this?”</p><p>“Hi, sorry. It’s Gary from NSY. Greg had an incident on a case. He’s awake now and he’s been shouting about updating you as his emergency contact. I guess they called Stella.”</p><p>John’s heart was in his throat and he sat down heavily on the couch, unconsciously clenching and releasing his fist. “What happened?”</p><p>“Here, the nurse is done. He’ll kill me if I don’t just let him talk to you. Let me put him on.” </p><p>“John! God, they wouldn’t give me a phone and I forgot to change my EC and no one asked me before they called Sheila. She’s in Switzerland with her old ski instructor, apparently.” </p><p>“Greg, what happened?”</p><p>“We got the bastard, but he got me too. Some kinda sedative tranquilizer thingy? The team found the bottle and sent it with the paramedics so they could take care of me.”</p><p>“Christ, Greg! I’ll be right down. Where are you?”</p><p>“Oh, John, don’t bother with that. Hopkins’ll bring me back. It’s on her way home and I’ll get there faster than you driving all the way up here.”</p><p>“You’re sure? I’m happy to do it.”</p><p>“Absolutely. See you soon.”</p><p> “All right, then. Love you.” John said, hoping he kept the nervousness out of his voice.</p><p>“Love you, too.”</p><p>* </p><p>“Didn’t have time to get you flowers, love,” Greg said by way of greeting as he came through the door. John stood to welcome him with a tight hug.</p><p>Hopkins walked in right behind him. “He won’t stop talking about it. I wasn’t about to stop for flowers on Valentine’s Day when they already freaked you out with that phone call. Getting him settled in to rest is more important, right?.”</p><p>“Thank you for that. And thanks for getting him home.” John said. “Can I get you anything, Stella?”</p><p>“Ta, but I just want to pour myself into a bubble bath.” She handed over the discharge paperwork, which Greg passed to John. </p><p>“Understood. Goodnight,” John said, scanning through the stack. He breathed a sigh of relief. Greg really was fine. </p><p>She turned to Greg, “See you Monday? If you need longer--” </p><p>“Nah. I’ll be in. See you, Monday. Thanks for the lift.” </p><p>“Anytime.”</p><p>They stood at the door, watching her go, Greg supporting himself against the door frame, though he tried to hide it. </p><p>“They’re letting you off tomorrow? I’m not scheduled either. Maybe make a day of it?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Greg smiled. “I really am sorry about the flowers, though. Proper romantic holiday and all.”</p><p>“Christ, Greg, with the day you’ve had I’m just glad to have you back home in one piece.” John drew him close and held on for longer than usual. “Thought I might be the one bringing <i>you</i> flowers in hospital.” John couldn’t help but think of the last Valentine’s Day. They’d forgotten the holiday at all, but it hadn’t been bad. They’d woken early, kissed and had a leisurely breakfast, then unpacked the last of John’s boxes. They pushed the new mattress that had been delivered the day before, into the bedroom and wrangled it into place. After a month of sleeping on the hard lumpy, bachelor pad mattress Greg had gotten on the cheap following his divorce, Greg had decided a nicer, bigger bed was warranted. John deserved it. Once it was in position, they’d spent most of Valentine’s Day breaking it in, never realizing until the date. No flowers or chocolate, but plenty of love, so they called it a success anyway. .  </p><p>Greg chuckled and closed the door, bringing John back to the present. Greg kissed him. “I’m fine. It really was faster this way. Just needed to get home.”</p><p>John stripped Greg’s jacket off, and leaned in for another kiss as his hands worked open the buttons of his shirt. “There’s dinner if you’re hungry. Got Chinese from that place you like. It’s in the fridge. Wasn’t sure how soon you’d be back. Shower first, though, yeah?” </p><p>Greg nodded.  </p><p>“Let me take care of you,” John said, leading him down the hall.</p><p>“Definitely. Need to wash this day away.” Greg unfastened his belt and flies, pulling his trousers and pants down together and stepping out of them. He shed socks and vest along the way. </p><p>John turned on the taps and stripped off. He stepped into the warm water, wetting his hair, then beckoned Greg in, scooting over to make room.</p><p>Greg let out a moan of pleasure at the hot water hitting his back and even more when John lathered soap, washing and massaging away the tension of the day.   </p><p>“God, you’ve no idea how good that feels.”</p><p>“I’ve some idea. Come here.” John pulled him close, wrapping his arms around him. “Missed you.”</p><p>“This case has been hell. I’ve missed you, too.” Greg kissed his lips, his neck, his shoulders. </p><p>John hummed appreciation as he released Greg, rinsing the soap off and cleaning himself up as well. He squirted out a dollop of shampoo onto his palm and lathered Greg’s hair, massaging his scalp too. Greg hummed appreciatively as he rinsed and conditioned.</p><p>“Should I get injured more often? This feels amazing.”</p><p>“Don’t you dare. Could do this other times, though, if you like.”</p><p>Greg made an affirmative noise and finished rinsing. He rolled his neck out under the warm spray, then they shifted around so John could get at the water again. </p><p>He made quick work of washing his own hair, then asked, “You need more time in here or should we…”</p><p>“I can get out, if you’re ready,” Greg answered. “Unless…” He leaned forward to catch John in a kiss, pressing their bodies together.  When they broke apart, Greg whispered, “God, it’s been a while.”</p><p>John kissed him again, deep and hard, feeling Greg’s interest was piqued, the thickening length of him, pressing up against John’s hip. “I thought you were exhausted?” John said with a teasing smile.</p><p>“Doesn’t mean I want you any less. Feeling more lively by the moment, actually.” Greg wiggled his hips playfully, his hard cock slipping against John.</p><p>“That so?” John squeezed his hip and kissed along his jaw until he could whisper in his ear, his voice hushed and deep with desire. “Then let’s at least get into bed.”</p><p>“Spoilsport.” Greg teased, reaching down to stroke John.</p><p>John batted his hand away. “You say that now, but after the day you’ve had, you know one of us is going to slip and fall and I don’t fancy a nighttime trip to A &amp; E.”  </p><p>Greg chuckled and conceded, “Fair enough. Had enough of that. You’re the only doctor I want to see for the rest of the day,” kissing John again. He rinsed his hair one more time and shifted so John could do the same. </p><p>They dried off quickly, despite stopping for several kisses along the way, then headed to the bed.</p><p>John grabbed a bottle from the top of the bureau and directed Greg to lay down in the middle of the bed on his front. John straddled his hips, squeezing some onto his hands and rubbing them together to warm it. The spicy, citrus-laden scent of Greg’s favorite lotion filled the air. “You have had a nightmare of a day and I promised I was going to take care of you.” He smoothed his hands over Greg’s back.</p><p>Greg groaned at the contact and seemed to melt deeper into the bed with every motion of John’s hands, rubbing and kneading away the last of his tension.  </p><p>Their position made it obvious that John was enjoying this as much as Greg, his cock pressed against the seam of Greg’s arse. He rocked gently as he continued, keeping them both hot and longing.</p><p>At last Greg shifted, bucking up to encourage John to thrust more. “As much as I’m loving this massage, I want you now. Please.”</p><p>“Love it when you’re needy,” John said, reaching for the slick as Greg wriggled and thrust against the mattress beneath him. “Roll over.” John nudged him. “Don’t worry. I won’t make you wait too long.” </p><p>John rummaged in the side table coming up with a condom, rolling it on and slicking himself before turning his attention to preparing Greg. He’d worked him open efficiently, stretching him just enough to feel good, before Greg interrupted.</p><p>His cock was hard and leaking. His eyes looked positively desperate. He gave himself a long pull, staring into John’s eyes as he begged, “Y-- yes,  please, John. I’m ready. It’s enough...just need you.”</p><p>John pulled him close and lined up. Pressing in all at once the way Greg loved.</p><p> “God, yes, like that, John. Hard please.” Greg’s hands scrabbled against the sheets, overwhelmed with sensation and needing to hang onto something.</p><p>John knew that need, those times after a battle when he’d barely made it home,and needed it hard and fast.To know that you’d made it through. They were here, safe, alive. But this was different. Better. Not just the need to feel something, but an answering need in every touch. <i>You made it, you’re here, you’re home</i> “I love you, Greg.”</p><p>Greg grabbed John’s hips, pulling him harder against him, too gone for words. He chased his own orgasm and every move of his body begged for John to come too. At last, they were both overcome with pleasure. Greg cried out, spilling between them and John was undone, spurred on by the rocking of Greg’s hips against him, the sound of his moans, the rhythmic pulse of his arse as he came.</p><p>Greg lay panting beneath him. “I love you too, John. God, that was perfect.”</p><p>John kissed him. “Glad you’re home,” he said, slipping off to get a damp flannel. </p><p>They cleaned up and curled into each other’s arms. They may have gone through hell to get there, but they had found their way home.   </p><p>John was just starting to doze when Greg’s stomach rumbled.</p><p>John sat up. “Dinner! Nearly forgot. You haven’t eaten.”</p><p>Greg sat up too, smiling. “I am hungry, but I don’t want to leave this bed.”</p><p>“You just rest here. I’ll be back.” John left the room and bustled about the kitchen, plating and warming and in a few minutes had a tray ready. He added a couple champagne glasses and the bottle from the fridge. At least they could have that. Nothing in Greg’s paperwork had said anything about abstaining.</p><p>He settled the tray over Greg’s lap and watched as Greg tucked in to it, savoring each morsel. John smiled. He had caught Sherlock watching him eat sometimes. It had been a little unnerving, but he got it now. There was something sweet about watching Greg relish his dinner, like this cheap Chinese food was the best thing he’d ever had.</p><p>“Do you know that just before I passed out today,” Greg said, “I thought I’d never eat these dumplings again.”</p><p>“No, you didn’t,” John countered, settling into bed beside him and popping the cork.</p><p>“Okay, I didn’t think of these exact dumplings. Or kissing you, or anything really, but I am so glad I get to do all those things again. I haven’t had nearly long enough to enjoy them.”</p><p>John poured and handed Greg a glass, then smiled and lifted his own. “To second chances.” </p><p>Greg clinked his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”</p><p>They both heard the toasts that weren’t made. To second chances, yes, but more than that, to claiming happiness where they could, to remembering that life wasn’t infinite, and to finding pleasure in one another. To life. To them. </p><p>To love.</p>
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